


Beware the Goo

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: F/M, Possession, Wygoona is Basically the Worst, is it Goononna?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 04:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11372466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: Anonymous said:Could you possibly write a fic on wyndolls with wynonna finding out what dolls wanted doc to tell her? Love your fics btw!Anonymous said:Prompt idea!!! Goononna tries to seduce dolls and it works until he sees here eyes and he realises she's a demon!





	Beware the Goo

The first clue that something was wrong should have been Peacemaker under a kitchen chair, but in his defense Wynonna’s got kind of a habit of being mercurial regarding the curse.  Not that he blames her, really.  So, he just puts it on the table and prays she doesn’t need it today and goes back to the initial plan of the hour—making a sandwich because lighting up a demon’s ass can really work up an appetite, one that hasn’t been satisfied fully in like twelve hours.  (And, sure, ostensibly he’s waiting on Waverly so they can start figuring out what that thing inside of her is, but multitasking is key.)  He flips on the TV and grunts in mild offense when the Ancient Aliens logo fades in on the screen.  Lazily in a way he hasn’t felt in _actual years_ , he starts channel surfing, barely even looking at the split-second scenes before clicking on.

Arms wind around his neck and he jumps a little—he hadn’t even heard footsteps—but he smells coconut shampoo and murmurs, “Wynonna.”

“There’s only like twenty channels, we’re stealing from the neighbors,” she whispers behind his ear before pressing a dry kiss there.

“Your closest neighbor is like two miles away,” he says.

Huffing a gentle laugh, she noses her way down his neck.  “We got a really long cable.”  Her teeth graze his skin feather-light and teasing but he can’t help the low noise he makes.  She hums softly, fingers spreading over his chest as he tilts his head to one side and they should probably talk about this but she nips at his earlobe and that thought goes flipping through the window.  “ _God_ , I want you,” she breathes into his skin, sending heat pulsing through him.

“Come _here_ ,” he says, half-order and half-plea. 

He’s cold everywhere she was touching him when she pulls away.  There’s a soft _fwump_ of a jacket hitting the floor and she tugs her sweater up over her head as she rounds the couch and drops it as she climbs into his lap, eyes heavy-lidded and focused on his lips with an intensity that sucks all the breath outta him.  Her fingers trace down his cheek, over his lips, as his hands slide up her thighs, her hips, her waist, tug her closer against him and she gasps and lets out a laugh—high-pitched and sugar-sweet—that makes his blood freeze even as her mouth crashes into his, hungry and eager and _good_ but with a tang of metal and something cloying and it’s not—it’s not really—

He pushes her away and gasps, holding her face, “Wynonna—look at me.”

That laugh again, ringing with horrible delight, as her black eyes lift to his. “C’mon, baby,” she says, voice wrong and coaxing as she wriggles her hips, “Don’t be like that.  She’s wanted it _so_ long.”

“Stop it,” he commands, anger tamping down the chill of fear.  “Earp, listen—you’re still in there, I need you to—”

“Shh, no, no, don’t you know?  She’s tired, she’s sleeping, she’s _weak_ ,” the thing in her sighs delightedly. 

“She’s not—you’re not weak, love,” he urges, peering into her eyes for any sign of a fight, a struggle, the glimmer of her in there _hearing him_.

Head cocked, the demon snickers, “Did you think it would be that easy?  This isn’t a Disney movie.”  But her nails are digging into his wrist and her face has lost some of its confidence.

“I’m right here,” he says, “Just keep looking at me.”

He feels her trying to jerk out of his grasp, but suddenly she goes limp and her eyes shut tight and her gasps sound like sobs.  Her eyes are _hers_ when they open again and there’s a naked fear there that settles into his chest.

“Thank—thanks for not—” she chokes, barest hint of a smile twitching at the corner of her lips.  “Dolls, I can’t—can’t—”

“Bullshit,” he interrupts sharply.  “You _can_ , and you’re gonna.”

“Have more realistic expectations of me,” she begs, squeezing her eyes shut.  “Waverly, she--she gave them--they jumped ship.  Dolls, they’re so strong,” her voice cracks.

“Hey,” he soothes, feigning a calm he doesn’t quite feel, “Think of how badass this is gonna sound when we get them outta there.”

“There’s a sex joke wants to be made,” she mumbles dazedly.  “Dunno what it is.  But it’s there.”

“Noted,” he huffs.  Her head lolls, drifts a little, “Hey, hey, I need you to stay with me.”  She swallows so hard he thinks he hears her throat click and nods.

“You gonna… gonna break out the ol’ vestments?  I think I got a sexy nun costume—back of the closet,” she jokes as he eases her off of him.  “Forgive me, Father, for I have… God, I just _keep_ sinning.”  She sways on her feet and her smile is watery but it’s there.  Then her face crumples and he watches her fists clench, release, clench…  “Dolls, it’s so _hard_ —heh, that’s what—”

“He said, yeah,” he interrupts.

\--

It’s a little like a dream, a little like a nightmare—she’s kinda floating, kinda fighting, kinda choking on the thing clawing and scrabbling in her head and it whispers in voices she can almost recognize and she tries to hold on to herself.  It’s like—like one time she got caught in a current because her dumb raised-in-the-middle-of-a-landlocked-province ass thought she knew better than the red flags dotting the beach and she didn’t know which way was up and her head would break the surface just enough for her to gulp salt water and air.  She remembers now the strained exhaustion, making her limbs heavy and slow, head waterlogged, sinuses stinging—that’s how it feels.  She loses time—or time gets confused—or she’s confused, daylight slips to night when she blinks and Dolls looks drawn and tired and— _scared_ , she can see that in him even if he pretends he’s not.  That fear—his, and hers—takes root, slithers through her, sick and serpentine. 

She doesn’t listen, not really, as he lists… something, instructions?  Something cryptic and urgent into his phone, she doesn’t listen because she’s too busy trying to see him, to be able to stay _her_.

She loses that fight.

He says, “Just give up already, I’m getting bored.”  He says, “Face it, you’re weak.” He says, “It’s better this way, you know you couldn’t have fixed anything, anyway.”

“This blows,” she groans, hunching in on herself.  _Not real, not real, not real_.  “Hey,” she croaks, reaching for him.  She doesn’t think about whether or not it makes sense when she demands he tell her something true.  The fog clears a little and she sees his wide, wide eyes and Doc bangs through the front door with a box that looks like it’s on its last legs clutched to his chest.

It’s disgusting how much easier it is to ground herself when he whispers, so close she can almost taste his breath, that she’s doing so well and he’ll be right here with her.  His fingers tangle up with hers and the whispers in her head go a little dimmer.

“This is a bad trip, boss,” she says vaguely.

“I know, love.”  There’s that word again. She doesn’t realize she’s said that out loud until his gaze shutters in confusion.  “This is not how I planned telling you,” he frowns, oddly conversational for the intensity of his gaze.  “Makes for awkward timing.”

“You’re not wrong,” she laughs weakly.

“Doc had _one job_ ,” he sighs.

She _knew it_.

\--

“You couldn’t have told her?  I gotta tell her mid-exorcism prep?” Dolls asks dryly as he lights candles carefully placed around the living room.

“Well, excuse me for saving fulfilling your death wish until you actually died,” Doc snaps back idly.  “Besides, it’s really the sorta thing that ought to be said yourself.”

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he demands, “Did you get hold of Waverly?”

“No, I did not.”

“That’s awesome,” he grinds out.  “That’s really cool.”  He’s distinctly aware that her Latin is _much_ better than his.  It’s not that he _can’t_ , it’s just that she’d do it better.  There’s a twinge of anxiety, but he stomps it down.  It has to be done _right_ , with _perfect confidence._ They lay everything out, they pattern the salt, they ignore the thing that taunts them when Wynonna slips away.  Or pretend to—Doc’s looking a little worn.  It doesn’t take very long and they should really, really start—but it feels wrong and he tries to phone Waverly again. 

In spite of the phone pressed tight to his ear, the shrill ring, he can still _hear her_ —“Ooh, I think he _scared_ her with all his big talk,” she croons sweetly.  “What’s she gonna do with all that?  I mean, realistically, with her track record—probably kill him.”  There’s a pause, then, “You wanna know if you’re any safer?”

He hears Waverly’s sing-song voicemail and ends the call, shoves his phone in his pocket, and grabs the book off the table next to Peacemaker.  It’s heavy and feels alive and he kind of hates this book.  Biting the inside of his cheek, he looks at Doc and Wynonna.  “So, this is gonna suck,” he says.  “Let’s begin.”

The beginning’s a little rough—he usually has someone, a team, a liaison, someone whose accent is more practiced, whose understanding is more nuanced.  He’s got a working knowledge, he does okay, it’s just… halting, almost awkward.

“Performance issues?” the demon asks politely, eyebrows tilting in mock sympathy.  “Nothing to be ashamed of, I hear one in five…”

“That was the lowest-hanging fruit you could have gone for.”

\--

It goes like this:

The tide drags her under again, this time filling her lungs.  Daddy comes to her bloodied and with rope around his ankles—it’s an easy, lazy dig—Willa asks how she could let this happen, then other voices hissing and jeering and _freak psycho slut_ —

Then pain like she’s never felt before, like her skin’s being peeled off, like every hair is being yanked, like every nerve is on fire, like her guts are trying to escape and she tries to scream but there’s still water in her lungs and she can’t see and it goes on for an eternity and, God, she may beg to just die, just fucking kill her, don’t make her keep on like this and—

Then she’s hacking, retching, coughing until she’s spitting up something—something thick and not quite fluid, sick and bitter and she’s lucid enough to lean to the side, lucid enough to think, _Oh, that’s a stain we’ll never get outta the hardwood_.  The black goo is shimmery, sticky-slick and she mumbles thoughtlessly, “Shit, I think that’s my liver.”

“There she is,” Dolls says hoarsely, exhaustion and pain etched on his face, sweat shining on his brow.  She can feel Doc untying her—when had she been tied up?—his calloused fingers overly gentle on bruised skin.  She watches Dolls’ hand dip into a jar and come out sprinkling honest-to-god glittery _something_ on the puddle, watches it sizzle and smoke like a demon slug.

“Jesus Christ,” she moans, turning her face away from the stink.  “That came out of me?”

“Afraid so,” Doc says, smoothing her hair back as she slumps against his shoulder, unable to muster the energy to keep herself upright anymore.  She’s never _been_ this tired before.  Actually, she could totally just fall asleep like this, tomorrow morning’s sore neck is a problem for future Wynonna.

“Earp,” Dolls says gently, and when she opens her itchy eyes he’s crouched in front of her, peering into her.  “How do you feel?”

“Like death on the side of a highway,” she mumbles, but her head is clear and her body is hers and she guesses she should be glad for the little things.  “You gonna be weird about it?”

“Oh, yeah, _I’m_ the weird one,” Dolls scoffs and watches her circle his wrist with her hand.

The silence stretches but it’s not bad, she doesn’t think.

“Well,” Doc interrupts, standing slowly enough for her to be able to steady herself on her own, “I need a smoke.”  She looks up to see him looking pointedly at Dolls, “You can get her to bed on her own, right?”

“Um, her right here, can totally hear you,” Wynonna gripes, frowning.  “Her can probably totally make it to bed on her own, thanks.”  As he leaves, she turns her incredulous scowl to Dolls, “That was _super_ subtle.”  But he just grins, big and relieved and gorgeous.  He stands, firm hands drawing her up with him and holding her upright for a moment while she gets used to standing again.  “Wait—just, really quick,” she mumbles, wrapping her arms around him and only kinda because she wants to use him to lean against.  She breathes him in, all sweat and salt and sage and rosemary and something else she recognizes but can’t name. 

“C’mon, Earp, you need rest—”

She groans, not just because the thought of walking to her room sounds about as likely as running a marathon, previous statements be damned.  “I liked the other thing better.  You’re _absolutely_ gonna be weird about this.”  She yawns into his shoulder.  

“There’s no rush to—”

She cuts him off by slamming her lips into his and for a moment it’s great and good and—“Holy shit,” she whispers, wide-eyed as she jerks away.  “I just puked up a demon oh my _god_.”

Whatever she expects, it’s not him to burst out laughing, loud and genuine and, like, it’s a little off-putting because _she_ wasn’t the one running around calling people _love_ and literally exorcising their demons and being _right there_ and saying all those ridiculous, nice things and—

“I’ll be here,” he says softly, thumbs stroking over her jaw.  “That’s all I meant, you don’t have to—I’m not going anywhere.” 

She chokes on a nervous chuckle.  Head bobbing, she swallows thickly and asks suddenly, “Waverly?”

“I’ll—we’ll find her,” he assures her.  “But, first, let’s get you to bed, okay?”

Chest tight, she lets him half-carry her to her bedroom and each part of her is worn out, and the low-level worry in her gut is worming around but she’s almost too tired to notice.  She fairly collapses into the mattress, but she’s got strength and energy enough to snag his beltloop and murmur mashed into the pillow, “Stick around.”

“Uh,” he says eloquently.

Snorting, she flops onto her back and lets her arms fall at her sides.  “I’ll keep my hands out of any bathing suit zones,” she promises.  She can hear the echo—not real, she knows it’s not real, knows it’s gone—of cutting remarks in familiar voices, and she just wants to feel something real for a little while.  He makes a noise that must be defeat and goes to the other side of the bed, catching the light on his way.  The door’s still open (she remembers this Lifetime movie where this teenage girl was supposed to keep her door open when boys were over and it makes something stupid and giddy rise in her chest, it’s funny but she can’t make sense of _why_ ) and the light from the hall filters in but it’s soft and she can live with it.  He climbs into the bed next to her and it’s a herculean effort to curl into his side.  With her head planted on his chest, though, she realizes he’ll probably have to pry her off of him.

When she says as much, voice heavy with sleep, she feels his gentle chuckle and, damn, she could _live_ in that feeling.  “Go to sleep, love,” he whispers into her hairline.

**Author's Note:**

> There was, like,,,,, moderate literary hand-waving going on. 
> 
> Also I hope my anons don't mind me mashing their prompts together?? Because it felt perfect to me?? 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you liked it or it made your chest ache--please swing by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) where I cry a lot and am generally a loser.


End file.
